


Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End

by gemjam



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Allison's Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 02:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: Chris is a parent without a child. Stiles is a son without a father. It makes sense that they would end up together.





	Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End

Stiles stands over his father’s ripped apart body and if Chris couldn’t see the tear tracks down his face glinting in the moonlight, he would call him stoic. When he looks up, it’s not at Scott or Lydia or any of his friends. His pack. It’s straight at Chris.

“We need to get our stories straight,” he says. “Right?”

Chris nods. Stiles wasn’t there in the aftermath of Allison’s death, but he knows the rules. They invent an animal attack, agreeing on size, colour of fur. It sounds like a mountain lion but none of them got a good enough look to be sure. It all happened so fast.

It’s not until they’re outside the Sheriff’s Station, their statements locked in ink, that Stiles falls apart. He collapses into Scott’s arms, broken and sobbing, and Chris is pretty sure it’s only Scott’s wolf strength that keeps them upright.

Chris never did this. He never gave into the animal side of his grief for Allison. He was trained better than that. He wishes he wasn’t.

He waits on the sidewalk until Stiles’ sobs become hiccups and then he finally pulls away from Scott, totally spent. He wipes at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie and Chris produces a handkerchief from his pocket, holding out to him.

Stiles snorts an incredulous little noise. “You’re such a dad.”

The words hurt, but Stiles can’t possibly know that. He looks at Scott’s bike parked up on the curb. There’s no way Stiles has the strength to hold onto the back of that thing. He nods towards his SUV.

“I’ll give you a ride.”

When they pull into the driveway of Stiles’ house, Stiles sits, silent and still, for a full two minutes. “I can’t go in there,” he finally says.

Chris puts the car in reverse and pulls back onto the street.

He lives in a pathetic little one-bedroom bachelor pad now. He feels embarrassed ushering Stiles inside, but Stiles doesn’t seem to notice. Chris gives him the bedroom and lies on the couch with a thin blanket. He hears Stiles’ phone getting message notifications throughout the night. He guesses he’s talking to his friends. Or maybe he’s not responding and they just keep trying. Either way, Chris doesn’t think either of them sleep.

He wordlessly hands Stiles a cup of coffee when he emerges in the morning and Stiles gives him a sad little smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. It makes Chris grit his teeth.

The whole town turns up for the funeral. Stiles sits in the front row, nestled between Scott and Lydia. Chris sits behind them.

“I should say something,” Stiles says anxiously as they wait for proceedings to begin. “That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?”

“Only if you want to,” Lydia says.

“I _should_ ,” Stiles insists. He shakes his head. “I can’t. How can I…?”

Scott puts his arm around his shoulders. Lydia holds onto his hand.

The Sheriff’s deputies carry in the casket. When Stiles sees it, his body starts to shake and he buries his face in Scott’s neck. His friends hold him tighter.

Stiles pulls himself together somewhat for the receiving line as people leave the church. He looks like a boy with a huge responsibility on his shoulders. He’s flanked by his friends but no family. Nothing left. Chris knows that feeling all too well. When he shakes Stiles’ hand, Stiles gives him a knowing look. This is something they share.

Chris finds him again at the reception in the town hall, standing at the edge of the room with a glass of wine. Sometimes Chris forgets that they’re old enough to drink now. He still sees them as seventeen. He sees them as Allison’s age.

“I hate this,” Stiles says. “How is mingling and eating buffet food supposed to help?”

“Do you want to leave?” Chris asks.

“I can’t leave,” Stiles dismisses.

“Events like this aren’t for the people we’ve lost,” Chris says. “They’re for the people who are still here and looking for something. But if this doesn’t help you, that’s fine. There are plenty of ways to honour the dead.”

A tiny smile lifts up the corners of Stiles’ mouth. “Like curly fries?”

Chris shrugs. “Curly fries works.”

They hit up the drive thru and take the food back to Chris’ apartment. Chris knows that Stiles still hasn’t been back to his own place since that night. He’s been staying with his friends, in spare rooms and on couches. Chris is happy to be that friend tonight.

He gives Stiles his bedroom again, sitting on the couch and pouring himself a scotch. He doesn’t allow himself this often. He knows it’s a vice he could all too easily drown in. The funeral today brought up a lot of feelings though, things he tries to keep buried.

He thinks he’s living a life Allison would be proud of. He’s doing it all in her honour. He’d rather have his daughter back though. He’d give up the whole world for that. He doesn’t admit it often because it brings him far too close to the void. Acceptance is the only way he can move forward. The fury and the guilt and the anguish don’t help anyone, even if they feel like a much more natural state of being.

Stiles gets up to use the bathroom at some point in the middle of the night and sees Chris still up.

“Hey,” he says, hovering at the edge of the room like he’s not sure if he’s intruding.

Chris gives him a nod. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles levels him with a look. “You know, don’t you? So why would you ask that?”

Chris shrugs, swallowing down the rest of his scotch. He needs another. He needs to drown the bottle.

“Do you want the bedroom?” Stiles asks. “It’s not like I’m sleeping.”

“I’m not sleeping either,” Chris responds.

Stiles nods, stepping further into the room. “Do you want to not sleep together?”

Chris looks up at him, the way he chews of his thumbnail while he waits for a response. “Sure,” he says. “Come sit down.”

They don’t talk, but the room feels a little less dark with Stiles in it. Chris holds up the bottle in question and Stiles gives a half-shrug, half-nod. Chris goes to get another glass, pouring them both a generous measure. Stiles takes a swig and then pulls a pained face. He swallows it down and coughs. He’s old enough to drink but Chris guesses he’s not experienced with hard liquor. That’s a good thing. Chris is tempted to take it out of his hand. He’s too vulnerable to bad things that feel good right now.

Stiles stares at the blank TV screen and takes another more measured sip. It goes down easier that time. Chris immediately feels guilty.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” Stiles asks. He looks around. “Do you have any movies?”

“I haven’t gotten around to unpacking some things,” Chris admits.

Stiles gives him an incredulous look. “Dude, how long have you lived here?”

Too long. He gets to his feet and leads Stiles to the hallway closet where there’s still some packing boxes stacked up. He watches Stiles look through, picking titles up and discarding them before he finds something near the bottom of the box.

“This one’s good,” he says.

Chris stares at it. “That was Allison’s.”

“Oh,” Stiles says.

“We can watch it,” Chris says.

Stiles looks up at him. “Are you sure?”

“It’s not a shrine, Stiles,” Chris says, going back to the couch. “It’s just an unpacked box.”

They watch the movie in silence. Stiles sips his drink and melts into the couch, his body edging closer to Chris’. He’s tactile. Chris wishes he could offer him something, but he sits as still as stone.

As the end credits roll, Stiles looks up at him. “Does it get easier?”

“What?” Chris asks.

“Losing everything,” Stiles says, a catch in his voice.

This would be the time to hug him, but Chris doesn’t move. “You have your friends,” he offers. “They’re going to stick by you.”

Stiles gestures to his chest. “Does the emptiness go away?”

Chris stares into his empty glass. It hasn’t for him. “You find ways to move forward.”

Stiles looks at him. “You’re not answering any of my questions.”

“What do you want me to say, Stiles?” Chris asks.

He can’t even come to terms with his own grief, how is he supposed to deal with Stiles’? He should have let him go home with Scott. He should have let him stay at the reception and listen to people say nice things about his dad. Instead he brought a broken boy to his broken home and he finds that he’s all out of comfort.

“I want you to tell me the truth,” Stiles says.

Chris sighs. “It hurts. A lot. All the time. And sometimes you forget for a minute and then it comes crashing down on you again and it hurts even more.” He looks over at Stiles. “You lost your mom. You know this.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “But you lost your whole family. And now so did I. I just don’t know what the point’s supposed to be now.”

Chris feels a fierce protectiveness surging up inside him. “The point is their hopes and dreams and expectations,” he says. “The point is that your dad raised you because he wanted you to have a good life. So you do it for him. You make him proud like he was still here. And maybe, somewhere along the way, you make yourself proud too.”

Stiles looks at him, a softness in his eyes. “She’d be proud.”

Chris feels a lump in his throat, threatening to choke him. He gives a curt nod. He looks at the window where sunlight is starting to bleed through the blinds. “I’m going to make breakfast.”

He drags himself to his feet, drinking black coffee to clear his head while he fries eggs and bacon. By the time he returns, two plates in hand, Stiles is sprawled across his couch, fast asleep. Chris lets him stay there for the rest of the day.

A week later, Stiles is heading back to DC. He still has one more year of college to go.

He and Chris text almost every day. Stiles always texts first, sometimes little, insignificant things that have happened in his day, sometimes on the brink of breakdown. Chris always responds. He changes his cell phone plan so that he gets unlimited texts. He’s never used them so much.

The calls start coming a few weeks later, in the middle of the night when Stiles can’t sleep. He assumes Chris will be awake too. Usually he is, but if Stiles wakes him he never lets him know. The roughness of his voice probably just sounds like scotch.

Stiles never says the things that are bothering him, never talks about his dark moods. Instead he tells Chris about a lecture he had that day or asks Chris what he’s been hunting lately. They pretend that it’s normal to have these conversations at 3am when Stiles sounds like he’s been crying.

Stiles doesn’t come home for Thanksgiving, but he’s back for Christmas break. He texts Chris with his flight details and Chris picks him up at the airport, though Stiles never directly asks. That’s kind of how they do things.

They get curly fries and they take them back to Chris’ place where Stiles throws his bag down on the floor like he’s staying. Chris doesn’t ask.

“Scott invited me to his for Christmas Day,” Stiles says through a mouthful of fries. “Christmas dinner with him and Melissa. And apparently his dad’s stopping by so that will be horrendous.”

“You don’t want to go,” Chris says. It’s not really a question.

Stiles licks his lips, hesitating just a moment too long. “Do you have plans?”

“I don’t really celebrate,” Chris says.

Stiles nods. “Maybe we could get Chinese food and have a Die Hard marathon,” he says, like the idea has just occurred to him. “You could point out all the inaccuracies in the weapon usage.”

Chris smiles at that. “Sounds like fun.”

Stiles stays that night in Chris’ bedroom and Chris wakes up on the couch to the smell of Stiles making pancakes. He walks through to the kitchen and is handed a cup of coffee with a smile. He sits down at the small kitchen table and nothing has felt this normal in years. Stiles sets a plate down in front of him and Chris eats, listening to Stiles talk about his plans with Scott that day.

Stiles takes his bag and spends the next few days with his friends. He still texts Chris though, like they’re not in the same town instead of a country apart. Chris smiles each time his phone lights up.

On Christmas Eve, Stiles turns up again. He brings a bottle of wine and they drink it while playing cards. Neither of them mentions Christmas. Stiles sleeps in the bed and Chris sleeps on the couch.

The next day, they order their Chinese food and sit down in front of the TV. There’s too much of it but they keep picking at it until it’s almost all gone. Stiles brought the box set and Chris enjoys critiquing it as well as offering trivia about all the weapons used, which Stiles eats up. This knowledge used to mean something when he was running Argent Arms, but Chris isn’t used to being impressive anymore.

When the third movie is over, Stiles goes to his bag and Chris assumes he’s getting the next DVD but instead he pulls out a little package wrapped in newspaper. He holds it out to Chris as he sits back down beside him. Chris eyes it warily.

“I didn’t know we were doing gifts.”

“We’re not,” Stiles dismisses, even though this is clearly a gift. “It’s just… whatever. It’s nothing. Just open it.”

Chris feels the apprehension building as he tears into the paper. He has no idea what to expect. What he finds is a bright pair of socks with werewolf faces on the toes. He stares at them.

“My dad and I had this tradition,” Stiles explains. “We always bought each other a pair of funny socks.” He looks down, embarrassed. “I thought maybe I should pass it forward.”

“It’s a good tradition,” Chris says. “Allison was at the age where all she wanted for Christmas was money. I wasn’t the best present giver.”

He looks down at the socks, the cartoonish faces on them, and imagines Stiles in a store picking them out, thinking of him. Maybe he bought everyone socks, maybe he’s sharing his tradition with all his friends, but Chris doesn’t think so. The way Stiles spoke about it makes it sound like a secret. He chose Chris, for whatever reason. Chris has never felt so useful. He wants to respond in kind.

“Let me get my cheque book.”

“No way,” Stiles protests. “You’re not giving me money.”

Chris looks at him. “I don’t have anyone else to give it to.”

Stiles meets his eyes, reading the sincerity there, and it’s like all his vulnerabilities come out. He nods his head. They’re in this together now.

Chris retrieves the cheque and starts to write it out, Stiles watching over his shoulder.

“That’s too much,” Stiles says.

“Don’t worry about it,” Chris says, ripping it out and handing it over.

Stiles rubs his thumb over it. “I’m going to spend this on text books and rent,” he promises.

“Spend it on videogames,” Chris says. “And whatever other frivolous things people your age spend money on.”

“Crystal meth?” Stiles asks.

Chris levels his gaze at him. “Do not spend it on crystal meth.”

Stiles grins then, so wide and joyous. Chris remembers that look but he hasn’t seen it in so long. It eases something in his heart.

“Are there more movies?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles responds. “But they’re terrible.” He reaches for his bag. “Let’s watch them.”

Chris spends New Year’s Eve alone. It’s a cruel day that forces you to take stock, reminding you of all the things that are missing. Chris can’t regain any of them through a resolution. At midnight, Stiles texts him a kissing emoji. Chris tries to dismiss the flutter in his chest. He feels touched at the thought that he would be anyone’s midnight kiss though, even platonically, even electronically. He stares at it for a long time and then eventually, he sends one back. His heart beats too fast in his chest while he waits to see if Stiles will respond. He’s probably drunk, draped around Scott to stay upright, the default designated driver. Chris is glad that Stiles has him. A minute later he gets another text, a hearteyes emoji. Chris smiles. He has no idea how to respond to that so he decides to call it a night.

When Stiles has to go back to college, Chris drives him to the airport. He waits to make sure Stiles gets checked in, even though he’s been doing this for years and is more than capable of getting himself on a plane. For his own peace of mind though, Chris wants to see him with his boarding pass in his hand before he’s willing to go anywhere.

Stiles shifts his bag on his shoulder, standing outside the security line, and then he moves forward, pulling Chris into a hug. He’s warm and surprisingly solid. Chris closes his eyes and savours it. He can’t remember the last time he was held. Human contact is such a simple thing that he’s almost forgotten about.

Stiles steps back, fussing with his boarding pass for a moment before he looks up. “I’ll see you at spring break.”

Chris nods. “Text when you land.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees with a little smile, turning and walking away.

They keep texting while Stiles is in DC and Stiles isn’t always the one who starts it anymore. Chris felt like he was playing a part for Stiles, answering a need, but now he feels like maybe they’re friends. Something close to it. He texts Stiles when he’s bored. He texts him when he sees something he might like. That’s a normal thing to do, isn’t it? Chris can barely remember.

Stiles feels more settled but he still calls Chris in the night when he can’t sleep or he has a bad dream or just a creeping dread that he can’t find the cause of. All things Chris is more than familiar with. He’s happy to talk Stiles through them, or talk about nothing with him until it eases. Sometimes just having someone there is all it really takes. Chris feels a lot less lonely now that he has someone too.

When spring break comes around, Chris picks Stiles up at the airport again.

“Hey, so, can I stay with you?” Stiles asks. “I mean, Scott offered. But I like your place.”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t know what this means.

“I should have asked before I came, shouldn’t I?” Stiles says. “Scott has room. I’m going to stay with Scott.”

“You can stay with me,” Chris rushes out instinctively. He looks at Stiles, wondering if this is appropriate. He doesn’t even know what his own intentions are, let alone Stiles’.

“Thanks,” Stiles says.

Chris nods. “Curly fries?”

Stiles grins at him. “Curly fries.”

It’s their tradition.

They sit on Chris’ couch to eat. Stiles being there makes the place feel warmer, more alive.

“You still have your dad’s place, right?” Chris says. “I drove past there last week. His car is still in the driveway.”

Stiles sighs heavily. “Yeah, I know, I’m a fucking disaster.”

“Stiles, that’s not what I meant,” Chris says. “It’s hard. I know. I went to France and just left the apartment, all of Allison’s things. I came back and closed her bedroom door and still didn’t touch them. Not until I moved here. When you all graduated high school and I had to admit to myself that she’d be gone anyway. That made it a little easier to pack away.”

Stiles nods. He’s staring at his curly fries and Chris thinks he might be trying not to cry.

“I can help you, if you want,” Chris says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, and Chris wonders if he imagines that crack in his voice. Stiles clears his throat, looking up at him. “I should do it. This week. I need to get it sold. I can’t hold onto it forever.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Chris repeats.

Stiles nods his head, the faintest hint of a smile.

The next morning, Chris puts on his werewolf socks, sitting down on the couch beside Stiles. He pulls his boots towards himself.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says distractedly. He sits forward and then spots Chris’ socks. He smiles, his eyes lighting up. “They suit you.”

“They do,” Chris agrees, pulling on his boots.

“Is that the first time you’ve worn them?” Stiles asks suspiciously. “They’re incredibly bright still.”

“I have colour protect laundry detergent,” Chris says. “I’m an adult, Stiles.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, looking for his own sneakers.

“I was wearing them the last time I went to Lydia’s new place for a pack meeting,” Chris says. “She made us all take our shoes off so we didn’t track mud in. Everyone found it most amusing.”

Stiles laughs. “Did you tell them where you got them from?”

“I redirected the conversation back to the matter at hand,” Chris responds.

Stiles nods, something passing over his face that Chris doesn’t have time to figure out before he’s getting to his feet. “Okay,” he says decisively, clapping his hands together. “Let’s tear my childhood home apart.”

When they get to the house, Stiles stands on the doorstep, spinning his keys around on his finger. Chris waits. A lot of dealing with grief is simply patience. There’s no speeding up the process. He places his hand on Stiles’ shoulder for support, prompting Stiles to take a breath like he’s breathing for the first time.

He unlocks the door and steps inside. It’s stale and cold. Stiles wraps his arms around himself.

“Where do I start?” he asks, his voice small.

“Wherever’s easiest,” Chris says.

Stiles snorts a laugh. “None of it’s easy.”

“I know,” Chris says.

Stiles starts by going around the house and taking photographs of the furniture, putting them online to sell. Chris guesses it’s easier to hide behind technology. He grabs some boxes from his car and starts to pack up the kitchen, carefully labelling the boxes. When he’s done, he finds Stiles in his father’s study.

“What am I supposed to do with paperwork and bills and all of this?” he asks, clearly overwhelmed. “Should I have done something with this already?”

“I’ll deal with it,” Chris tells him. “Why don’t you go upstairs?”

Stiles looks around hopelessly and then nods, his footsteps heavy on the stairs.

Chris sorts through the study as best he can, putting things into piles and making a list of things that need to be done. He had to deal with this for his own father’s estate, though he didn’t have any emotions weighing down the process. He won’t let Stiles get lost in the bureaucracy.

When he goes upstairs to find him, Stiles is in his dad’s room. He’s emptied out the contents of his closet onto the bed and is sat there holding one of the Sheriff’s work shirts.

“Should I give this back?” he asks, looking up at Chris.

“I don’t know,” Chris says honestly. “I don’t think they’d mind if you kept it.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t want to keep it.” He puts is down with a sigh. “It feels wrong to throw all his clothes out, but what am I supposed to do with them?”

“I gave Allison’s things to Goodwill,” Chris says. “Except for a few things I let Lydia take.”

Stiles gives a sad little smile. “There’s no use keeping them, I guess.”

“I’ll get some boxes,” Chris says.

They pack up his father’s room, most of it going in the Goodwill boxes except for a few things Stiles wants to keep hold of. There of things of his mother’s still there that his father couldn’t bear to part with and so Stiles can’t bear to part with them either.

Once the room is gutted, Stiles stands there, close to tears, before he takes pictures of the bedroom suite, uploading it to sell.

They go through to Stiles’ room next. It still looks like he lives there. It was still his home when he came back from college. He hadn’t moved on yet. He has to now. The thought makes Chris hurt.

“I don’t want to get rid of this stuff but I can’t ship it all to my place in DC,” Stiles says. “I don’t have the space.” He puts his head in his hands. “I was supposed to get set up after college before I had to deal with all this junk.”

“I rented a storage place,” Chris tells him. “You can keep it there until you get settled somewhere.”

Stiles lifts his head, blinking at him. “When did you do that?”

“This morning, while you were in the shower,” Chris says. “I made a few phone calls.”

Stiles looks like he wants to collapse against him. “You did that? For me?”

“Let’s pack it up and we can take it over,” Chris says.

They load the boxes into Chris’ SUV and then Stiles holds up a finger at him. “One more thing.”

Chris follows him back into the house, watching as Stiles opens up a sideboard that turns out to be a liquor cabinet. He starts loading up his arms.

“We’re taking this with us,” he says. “We are getting very, very drunk tonight.”

“I think we deserve it,” Chris agrees, grabbing the rest of the bottles.

They swing by the storage place and put Stiles’ boxes safely inside before they go home and order pizza. Stiles grabs two glasses from the kitchen and lines up all the bottles on Chris’ coffee table.

“We need to try everything,” he says. “For science.”

Chris doesn’t argue. Whatever Stiles needs right now.

Chris can hold his liquor pretty well. Stiles cannot. It’s adorable though, the way he talks too fast, slurring his words. Chris knows this is a slippery slope, taking solace in alcohol, but at least they’re not drinking alone. They’re celebrating a hard day, a job well done. If it’s a social occasion, it can’t really be that self-destructive.

Stiles looks down at Chris’ socks, his cartoon werewolves, and he laughs joyously. It’s a beautiful sound. “Bring them here,” he says, gesturing to himself.

Chris lies back on the couch, placing his socked feet in Stiles’ lap. Stiles grabs hold of his feet, squeezing them while pretending to howl as though he can intimidate the wolf. Then he growls and bites the side of Chris’ foot playfully.

“I think they’re supposed to bite you,” Chris says.

Stiles looks up the length of his body, still holding Chris’ feet in his hands, cradling them there. He stops laughing, as though struck by something, and then he moves, clambering over to rest his body on top of Chris’. Chris doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” Stiles says. “I literally couldn’t have done it without you.”

Chris nods. “It can be hard to face those things.”

“It can be impossible,” Stiles says.

“You’ll feel better when things are in order though,” Chris says. “And you can use the money on a down payment for your own place in DC.”

“I don’t think I’m going to stay in DC when I graduate,” Stiles says.

“Quantico?” Chris guesses.

Stiles shakes his head. “I might backburner that for a couple of years. I think I want to come back here. It feels like there’s unfinished business.”

“Don’t get sucked back in if you have a way out,” Chris tells him.

Stiles smiles. “You were in France, right?”

“I was,” Chris says.

Stiles rests his head down on Chris’ shoulder. “I don’t think I’d ever leave France.”

“There were extenuating circumstances,” Chris says gruffly.

He still holds it against Kate. But then maybe this is where he belongs too. Unfinished business. That sounds about right.

“I might ask Parrish is he’d take me on as a deputy,” Stiles says. “I feel very protective of this town. And I know they have a hell hound for a Sheriff now so they’re probably going to be fine, but I’d kind of like to carry on my dad’s legacy. I want to honour him.”

“Be wary of following in your father’s footsteps,” Chris says.

Stiles lifts his head up to look at him. “Allison followed in yours,” he points out. “She did okay.”

“No,” Chris says. “She forged her own path. She took me with her.”

Stiles nods. “My dad was a good man. I want to be a good man.”

“You are,” Chris assures him.

Stiles stares down at him. They’re so close together. At some point Chris wrapped his arms protectively around Stiles’ body. Stiles licks his lips and then he’s kissing Chris, and Chris must let him because Stiles’ tongue is licking into his mouth and everything is hot and breathless and better than it’s felt in years.

Chris tightens his grip, dragging Stiles closer, and Stiles makes this noise that’s so feral and pleasure soaked that Chris’ dick immediately takes notice. A little voice in his head tells him that this is wrong, that he’s taking advantage, but the alcohol and the want drown it out, sliding his hand under Stiles’ shirt. He’s so hot. He feels like he’s burning up.

They kiss, desperate and impatient and like the world might end if they stop. Their bodies are a harsh press of clashing muscles and their hands are fisted to hold each other tight. It softens though, goes deep and sensual, their bodies moving together in waves, and then they just melt, safe in each other’s arms as their lips move together and it doesn’t even feel like there’s a destination other than this.

Stiles pulls back, looking down at Chris with hazy eyes. “Your beard is scratchy.” Then he leans down, rubbing his face against Chris like he’s a wolf. It’s endearing and a little concerning. Chris wonders if he even realises he’s doing it.

“You’re drunk,” Chris says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, lifting his head with a smile. “I feel so good.”

“You won’t in the morning,” Chris says.

Stiles shrugs. “That’s a problem for future me.” He looks at Chris’ lips and Chris can see the worry setting in. “Was that okay?”

Probably not, is Chris’ initial thought. If they both needed it though, if it made them feel good, can it really be that bad?

“It was okay.”

Stiles’ face softens. “Okay.”

“We should drink some water,” Chris says, pushing at Stiles’ heavy body. “And get some sleep.”

Stiles sits up. “Will you sleep in the bed with me?” he asks. “Just sleep. For now.”

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” Chris says.

Stiles looks up at him, letting all his insecurities show. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Chris can’t argue with that.

Stiles spends the whole next day in his pyjamas, lying around and groaning. Chris goes to the store for hangover food and makes him eat. Stiles glares at him but he does as he’s told. By the evening he manages to stand up long enough to take a shower and put on some fresh pyjamas. They lounge on the couch together, ending up in a tangle of limbs. They kiss and touch but it doesn’t lead anywhere.

The rest of the week follows a similar pattern. Stiles goes to see his friends or he does college work at Chris’ kitchen table, then by the evening they’re on Chris’ couch, making out and heavy petting. It eases some deep down ache that settled in Chris’ bones a long time ago. He doesn’t know if it’s loneliness or something more complex, but Stiles feels like he’s fixing him a tiny bit at a time.

“I’m going back to college tomorrow,” Stiles says on the last evening, pacing around the room.

Chris nods. “Do you want a ride to the airport?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Stiles says. “But yeah. Please.”

“What are you talking about?” Chris asks.

Stiles sighs, sitting down beside Chris on the couch with a little too much urgency. “Can we address this?” he asks, gesturing between them.

Chris looks at him carefully. “What would you like address?”

“The fact that we make out every night and we sleep in the same bed and we’ve never even spoken about it,” Stiles says, a note of hysteria in his voice. “Is this a thing?”

“Do you want it to be a thing?” Chris asks.

Stiles shakes his head in frustration. “That’s not answering my question.”

Chris looks down, watching Stiles twist his hands together. He’s doing that. He’s fuelling that anxiety. The thought hurts him.

“It’s a thing to me,” he responds honestly.

Stiles lets out a relieved sigh, nodding his head. “It’s a thing to me too.”

Chris doesn’t know what that means, other than the fact that they’re both letting themselves be open to heartbreak. But that’s the most intimate thing you can do with a person, isn’t it? Give them the opportunity to break you. Chris hasn’t let anyone get that close in a long time. Not since he helped his wife push a knife into her own chest. Not since he turned up too late to save Allison.

“So, if this is something,” Stiles says. “I thought maybe, before I went back to college, we could do… _something._ ”

“You mean have sex?” Chris asks.

“Or something,” Stiles says. “I mean, when I was out with Lydia today, I picked up condoms. And lube. Just in case. I don’t know if you…”

Chris smiles. “Why did Lydia think you were buying those?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m going back to college tomorrow.”

“For many wild, sexual adventures,” Chris says.

Stiles shakes his head. He looks so delicate and scared. Chris reaches out, taking hold of his hand.

“How about we just see what happens?”

“Okay,” Stiles says quietly.

They go to bed and they kiss and touch and take off each other’s clothes. It’s been so long since Chris has felt this, skin against skin. It’s been so long since he’s been this in tune with another person, has been out of his own head for so long. It’s been so long since someone has broken through and made him truly, inescapably _feel._

He tastes Stiles everywhere, puts his mouth against every part of flesh he can reach, sucks his cock into his mouth. Stiles moans and writhes and looks at him with big eyes that bare his soul. He pulls Chris back up his body and kisses him fiercely, dull nails clawing at his back as he tries to pull him impossibly closer, as though he wants to meld them into one being. If that were possible, Chris would commit to it in a heartbeat.

They come like that, needy and breathless and crushed together. Stiles’ eyes brim over with tears that make Chris’ heart clench but he looks happy. He looks like a missing piece has been slotted back into place. Chris wonders if that’s what he looks like too.

They don’t use the condoms or lube but Stiles leaves them in Chris’ dresser drawer. “Maybe we’ll need them in the summer.”

“Maybe,” Chris agrees, pulling Stiles close and kissing him before they have to leave for the airport.

They text even more than usual and Stiles calls Chris when it’s not the middle of the night, just to talk. They try and have phone sex once, but Stiles gets exasperated that Chris is apparently not vocal enough.

“Just send me a picture,” he says before hanging up.

Chris does, his hand around his hard dick. Ten minutes later, he gets a response from Stiles.

_I came so fucking hard._

A minute later, another one comes through.

_Love you_

Chris stares at it. That’s probably just the endorphins. Or maybe he texts that to all his friends. He probably does. Not in this context though.

He knows that he should say something and so he sends Stiles the kissing emoji. Is that appropriate? He should probably use some words like a fucking adult. Stiles sends him that hearteyes emoji again though which Chris guesses is a good thing.

While Stiles is away, Chris oversees the house sale with the realtor and hands over the furniture to the people Stiles sells it to online. It feels good to be helpful, to take a weight off somebody else’s shoulders. Stiles is in his final semester, he doesn’t need to be worrying about fees and commissions. Chris likes looking after this for him. He likes looking after him.

Stiles invites him to his graduation in DC but Chris turns him down. His friends are going and they don’t know what Stiles and Chris are yet. Chris doesn’t know what they are either. He sends Stiles a card and a cheque and tells him how proud he is. Stiles doesn’t act hurt. Maybe he didn’t really want him there. Maybe that’s not what they are.

He gets a call from Stiles that night, smiling as he hears his slurred voice.

“Congratulations.”

“I got really drunk on champagne and told Lydia we’re dating,” Stiles says. “Are we dating?”

The expected panic is only momentary before Chris just feels warm. “When you get back here, I’ll take you on a date. Then we’ll be dating.”

“That’s perfect,” Stiles says. “Hey, I haven’t told Scott yet. He might want to kill you. I don’t know.”

Chris smiles. “What did Lydia say?”

“She called you a silver fox,” Stiles says.

“She’s incorrect,” Chris says.

“It’s salt and pepper at least,” Stiles responds. “We agree that it’s hot.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Chris says dryly. “Maybe you should go sleep this off.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Love you.”

Chris freezes. He can’t deflect with an emoji now. He’s going to have to say something. “I can’t wait to see you.” It’s true at least.

“Two more days,” Stiles says. “I’m putting my hands all over you.”

“I can’t wait,” Chris says. He really can’t.

He picks Stiles up from the airport, along with Lydia and Scott. Stiles doesn’t seem deterred by his friends, grabbing hold of Chris and hugging him close, pressing his face into Chris’ neck. When he pulls back, he leans in to kiss Chris. It’s thankfully chaste but definitely not platonic. Chris’ eyes flick over to Scott.

“Whatever,” Scott says, looking away.

“Yeah, that’s the best you’re going to get out of him right now,” Stiles says.

“I’ll take it,” Chris says.

Scott looks back over at him, unable to hide his smile. He gets it. He gets Stiles so of course he does.

“Well, I am very happy for you both,” Lydia says, touching Chris’ arm.

“Thank you,” Chris responds. He turns to Stiles, putting his arm around his waist as they start to walk towards the exit. “Curly fries?”

“Definitely curly fries,” Stiles says, leaning into him.

They eat in the fast food place, the four of them in a booth, excitedly telling Chris everything they got up to on their mini DC adventure. Chris smiles, feeling so content. He felt disconnected from the world for a long time. Bright lights and vinyl booths and chatter would have been his idea of hell, but he likes this. He likes the company. He likes being a part of something living again.

He drops off Scott and Lydia and then he takes Stiles home. They kiss as soon as they’re in the door, for real this time, tongues and wandering hands. It’s been so long but they fall back into a rhythm like they’ve never been apart. The instant familiarity makes Chris feels more settled than he maybe ever has.

They end up sprawled on Chris’ couch, Stiles’ head on his chest, Chris’ hand carding through Stiles’ hair.

“It’s weird,” Stiles says. “Having major life events and my dad not being there. I was walking across the stage and I looked out and I just… my brain couldn’t compute that I wouldn’t see him.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris says. “Anniversaries and new milestones are the hardest parts.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “I can’t believe it’s been almost a year.”

Chris nods. He can’t believe it’s been almost five. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles dismisses. “I have plenty of photos to bore you with.”

“It’s milestones,” Chris says. “This should have been one of hers. Honestly, I just wasn’t sure I was going to hold it together. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

Stiles lifts his head. “You wouldn’t have embarrassed me.”

“I would have embarrassed myself,” Chris says. He shakes his head. “It was your day. I wanted you to have it. You’ve worked really hard.”

“I worked my ass off,” Stiles agrees, resting his head back down.

“Your dad would be incredibly proud of you,” Chris says, feeling a tightness in his chest, a welling at his eyes.

Stiles takes Chris’ hand from his hair, pulling it to his mouth and placing a kiss against his knuckles. “We’re doing good,” he says. “They’d be so proud.”

Chris nods, taking a deep breath, letting the words sink in. “Yeah.” He’s allowed to have this. He’s allowed to be happy. Allison always loved with all of her heart. This is how he can honour her. He dips his head forward, pressing a kiss against the top of Stiles’ head. “Love you,” he murmurs into his hair.

Stiles lifts his head, his eyes warm and bright. “Love you too.”


End file.
